


make it easy, say i never mattered

by everybodylies



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: 1x16 Details, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2013-04-11
Packaged: 2017-12-07 17:57:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/751372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everybodylies/pseuds/everybodylies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"You saw that I was in a raw state and you stayed to see me through it. I deliberately adopted a more sanguine mood. I wanted you to see that I was well again so that you could move on. But the most curious thing happened. You stayed. Days passed, a week. It became clearer and clearer that you were not staying for me, but for yourself."</em>
</p><p>The week that he would later refer to as "the week from hell," and that she would later refer to as "the week Sherlock was suspiciously well-behaved and looked constipated when he thought she wasn't looking" started like this:</p>
            </blockquote>





	make it easy, say i never mattered

Wake up. Don't move. Listen.

Clanging, from below. The sound of someone making breakfast… or the sound of someone packing?

Jump out of bed, tip-toe down the stairs.

Look. You have to.

But you can't. Don't look, and maybe you can live in your fantasies for just a little longer.

Look. _don'tlookdon'tlookdon'tlook-_

See Joan, still in her pajamas, cooking bacon on the stove.

"What's the plan for today, Sherlock?"

Close your eyes. Breathe.

Another day. Another twenty-four hours. You can work with that. Maybe you can even live with it.

_One more day, one more day, one more day…_

* * *

The week that he would later refer to as "the week from hell," and that she would later refer to as "the week Sherlock was suspiciously well-behaved and looked constipated when he thought she wasn't looking" started like this:

He blinks, and suddenly there's 2.2 million dollars in his bank account. He's never cared much for material wealth, but that's a lot of money, even to him, and he can feel it weighing on him.

His father's gruff voice comes from the phone. "You get it?"

"Yes, I did," he replies awkwardly. "Thank you. This is a very big help."

"No need for thanks," says his father, who has the innate capability of ruining any good moment. "This is not charity; this is a business transaction. After all, I will be receiving something in return, _won't I_?"

He sighs. "Yes."

There's a pause, and Sherlock waits for his father to say something, anything, but the silence persists. "Well, good doing _business_ with you, _father_ ," he snaps, ready to hang up.

"Wait." His father's tone is considerably softer. "How has your recovery been going?"

The question catches him off-guard, and he shifts the phone to his other hand as he thinks. "Good, so far," he says slowly. "No relapses. Watson has been very instrumental the past few weeks-"

"Ms. Watson? I thought I denied her request to extend her stay with you."

He hesitates, a moment too long, but his father doesn't notice, of course he doesn't. "No, yes, you did. Naturally, I was referring to the progress we made before she departed," he lies because he knows how his father hates it when people disobey him.

So Joan's no longer being paid. But she's still here. Moriarty had happened, and she'd stayed. For him? For him. And if he's not mistaken, that might be the nicest thing anyone's ever done for him.

He sighs, wishes his father had never told him, because now he knows he'll have to repay the favor.

"Sherlock?"

"… I have to go. Kidnapped daughters don't save themselves! Talk to you later." He hangs up before his father can object.

 

1.         Money is important.

Of course, growing up with a trust fund the size of the economy of a small country makes one rather immune to monetary desires, but he's not oblivious, and he sees the way it affects others: the way the baristas at Starbucks won't smile at you until you toss some coins into the tip jar, the way his informants' mouths start moving only when the bills come out.

And then there's Joan, who's sitting there on the table, no paychecks, no income at all, recovering from a stressful encounter with an armed attacker, and he can't even tell. There's no bitterness, no frustration. She's just… there. Just like always. 

"Wanna talk about it?" she asks.

Here's his chance, he knows. To show how far he's come, to pretend he's come this far.

He doesn't want to, of course. He really, really, _really_ , doesn't want to because then she'll leave, and he's not sure what he'll do then. But she's sitting there, and she's done nothing but support him this past week, and she's not even getting paid, and the knowledge eats away at him.

"Not with you," he says, and he gets a fleeting idea that he maybe he should just stop there, but he forces the feeling to pass. "That is to say,  I think it's a tale more suited to a group setting. Others may find inspiration in my abstinence. Apparently."

"Well, there's a meeting in Cobblehill in-"

"Fifteen minutes, yep. So I was thinking, if you could hold off on dinner for a bit, you might join me?"

The pride in her eyes is evident, and it occurs to him that this is the first time he's ever willingly gone to a support group meeting. It's all over now. There's no way she can stay after this.

 

2.         Blink awake slowly. Wince at the pain in your back. Deduce that you'd fallen asleep on the couch. Again.

See Joan, her face bending over you.

"Hey Sherlock," she says softly. "I have to go-"

Feel your heart jump into your throat. Keep your face straight. Don't let the panic show.

No. Not yet. _notyetnotyetnotyet-_

"-to my brother's apartment. See you in a couple hours, okay?"

Nod.

Wait until the front door closes.

Sigh. Loudly.

\--

Theoretically, he doesn't need her anymore.

"How many of these godawful sports teams do you insist on watching?"

Theoretically.

She rolls her eyes. "All of them, of course. The Jets, the Rangers, the Knicks, the Mets. Why can't you like it? I thought you enjoyed the strategy."

He's got the support group to talk to. He's got Alfredo. And maybe he's even got Bell and Gregson. He's perfectly capable of staying sober without her.

"I do enjoy the strategy. However, these slow-thinking barbarians are so predictable, it rather takes all the fun out of it."

But it's not about the drugs anymore. In fact, had it ever been?

"Sherlock," she scolds, "it's not as predictable as you think. People are more than their statistics. They're complex individuals. And when it comes down to the moment, they either persevere… or they choke. And no one, not even you, can predict that."

No. He can't have thoughts like that. The truth is, he doesn't need her, never has. What he said to her all those weeks ago, it was true then and it's true now.

He only shrugs. "Your precious Jets are going to lose," he warns.

Sanchez connects the pass to Gates, who runs it down the field for a touchdown. Final score: 17-14, Jets.

She raises an eyebrow at him smugly, an "I told you so" hiding in the contours of her grin.    

He doesn't need her.

She dances off to the kitchen to make a pot of tea, footsteps light and joyful.

He doesn't need her, and maybe if he keeps thinking it, one day it'll be true.

 

3.         Add a pinch of salt. A dash of pepper.

Perfect.

Carry the tray up the stairs, into Joan's room. Set it down on her bed.

Clap your hands together loudly. "Up, Watson! We've got a case. Murder most foul! It's going to be a long day. No time for anything else." Like packing.

Watch her face closely. That frown. A result of the early hour? Or disappointment for a case that she won't see the end of?

Calm yourself. You don't need her, remember?

The moment passes and so does her frown. She rubs her eyes tiredly.

"Alright, alright, Sherlock. I'm getting up." 

Try not to skip down the stairs in joy.

\--

She looks so out of place in this seedy, blood-stained motel, with her neat outfit and her smile that contains so much light. He bends down by the body, but sneaks glances at her every once in a while. Could she fit here? In this world filled with murder and greed and drugs and death? He'd let her in, of course. But could she fit? 

He stops this train of thought before it can get out of hand. It doesn't matter; she doesn't even want to fit. Sure, she'd stayed these two extra days, but she can't want to live like this, facing horrific scenes of bloody murder every week. Who would?

No, she wants to move on. She wants a new client, someone more normal, someone who doesn't drag her out of bed before the sun's even risen, someone whose idea of a fun night isn't going over the case notes for the umpteenth time. She wants this to end. And he's in the way. She's stayed two extra days, but perhaps she isn't convinced that he's ready. Well, fine. If she wants more evidence of self-sufficiency, he'll give it to her.

She stares warily at the used syringes littering the floor. "You okay?"

No. He's been feeling the anxiety ever since he walked through the door. It sits on his chest, compresses him, tightens with every breath.

But he can't be selfish, can't keep her forever, trapped with him. Especially after all she's given him. He knows he's doing the right thing, though it doesn't make it any easier.

"Perfectly fine, Watson."

He's a rather good actor if he does say so himself.

 

4.         Slowly peel your face off the dining table.

Blink everything into focus. Look to your side at the empty chair where Joan had fallen asleep beside you.

Freeze.

Breathe. Breathe again. Think. Don't be rash. Don't panic.

Your voice even, shout "Watson?"

"I made coffee, Sherlock." Her voice comes from over your shoulder. "Also, Gregson called. There's been another murder."

Sigh. You can't keep this up for much longer. But for it to end, she'd have to leave, and that's by far the worse option.

It's a lose-lose situation. She leaves, it's over. She doesn't leave, you have a stroke every time you wake up.

But maybe it's worth it.

\--

The second body is drug-free, thank God.

"I want this solved, Sherlock," Gregson says, frown deep. "I want it solved soon."

"Going as fast as I can," Sherlock mutters from the floor, scrutinizing some blood spatter.

There's something he's missing here. A hidden piece that links everything together. He and Joan had stayed up half the night looking for it, but it still eluded them. What is he missing?

Joan absentmindedly pulls the refrigerator open. "Celery, bell peppers, carrots, gluten-free… hey, I think this guy had celiac disease."

"Is that relevant?" Gregson asks gruffly.

For the past twenty-four hours, something has been in the back of his mind, whispering things he can't decipher, but now it's screaming.

Joan shrugs. "I don't know. I just thought-"

It comes together. As if he needed another reminder of how much he needed her.

"It's very relevant, Watson!" He springs to his feet and starts for the door so suddenly that he narrowly avoids stepping in a puddle of blood. "It all makes sense now. Why the first victim was found with an empty wallet. Why his mother was being so evasive."

Joan chases after him, trying to understand. "…What?"

"No time to explain! We have to catch the murderer before she murders again!"

 

5.         Note, out of the corner of your eye, that the clock ticked past midnight several hours ago while you weren't paying attention.

See Joan sigh, close another file, say, "Nothing. Again. Sherlock, this is hopeless."

Shake your head. "The evidence that we need to convict Joanna Waters has to be in here somewhere. Feel free to retire if you wish, but I'm going to keep looking."

Look down at your papers, not at Joan, who's probably considering the logistics of pulling an all-nighter and then finding the energy to still pack up and move out tomorrow.

"No, I'll stay up with you, Sherlock."

Look back up at her, offer her a small smile.

"Many thanks, Watson. It's always easier to pull an all-nighter if you've got a partner."

\--

Gregson leans back in his chair, lazy smile on his face, and tosses the case file into the recycling bin.

"Well, it's the DA's problem now," he says, satisfied. "Thank you, Sherlock. I mean it. You help us on a lot of cases, but this time you really came through."

Giving up their friendly rivalry for a moment, Bell nods in agreement. Sherlock takes the few seconds he figures he's due to accept their gratitude, but then he steps back, next to Joan.

"Thank you, Captain, but I cannot take all of the credit. After all, it was Watson who discovered the victim's celiac disease, and who found the discrepancy in Joanna Waters' bank records in the first place."

Joan blushes, and Sherlock thinks what a waste. Such a brilliant mind, and she'll soon be working for another drug addict who's nowhere near being as intellectually stimulating as he is.

Gregson rephrases. "Well, many thanks to the team of Holmes and Watson."

Holmes and Watson. He quite likes the sound of that. Unfortunately, it will be over before it even really got a chance to begin.

 

6.         Sneak into the still-sleeping Joan's room at two o'clock in the afternoon. Try not to think about how angry she'd be if she woke up and saw you. Try to tell yourself you won't miss all these boundaries that you have to respect.          

Notice how this room somehow feels one to two degrees warmer than the rest of the brownstone, how, after only a few weeks, Joan has managed to make this previously empty room feel like part of a home.

Joan will be leaving soon. How can she not? You've been on your best behavior this entire week. She's got no reason to stay.

Don't think about the kind of loneliness that seeps out of cold air and quiet evenings and empty bedrooms.

Open her closet. Stare at her clothes. Clothes that are hanging up and not folded and packed into a suitcase. Stare until your breathing slows again, until your sweat dries, and your head stops rushing.

\--

It's dinner for him, breakfast for her.

"So how are you doing, Sherlock?" she asks as they sit down to eat. "I just wanna check in."

"I'm very good, Watson!" he lies, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically. He resists the urge to wince. "My abstinence when Rhys was staying over really encouraged me, so when we saw the heroin at the crime scene, it barely affected me."

Something flashes on Joan's face before she replies, but it's gone before he can make sense of it. "That's great, Sherlock. I'm happy for you."

He can feel it in the air; they're coming to an end, she and him.

The part that pains him the most, is that it would be so easy to make her stay. All he'd have to do is relapse. No, not even. Maybe almost relapse and have a panic attack. And he'd get a little more time.

But it's such a selfish thought, he feels guilty for even considering it. She's staying _for him_. He can't take advantage of that. Besides, it's pointless to forestall the inevitable. If she's not going to stay, she's not going to stay. A couple of weeks won't make a difference.

He reaches for his glass, raises it, and if the frustration shows in his eyes, Joan doesn't notice. "A toast, then. To us. To a fantastic partnership. It's been… enjoyable."

Joan smiles, taps her glass against his.

"To us." 

 

7.         Wake up. Don't move. Breathe. You can do this.

Force yourself out of bed.

Well. This is it. No more panic attacks in the morning. No more constant presence by your side.

Sneak along the hallway towards Joan's room.

Stop worrying about your intellect. It was just fine before she showed up, wasn't it? ~~But it's been so much better while she's been here.~~            

Put your hand on the doorknob.

Don't ask yourself what you're going to do without her because the answer is this: not much.

Grit your teeth. Go in.

The bed's empty. Is the closet? Are the drawers? Check quickly.

Nothing's been packed.

Try to stop yourself from sprinting down the stairs. Fail.

See Joan, relaxing in an armchair, reading the paper.

"Any plans for today, Sherlock?"

Look at the facts:

Joan is no longer being employed by your father.

She's staying extra unpaid days to make sure you're okay.

You've been acting okay for the past week.

Ergo, Joan should be gone. But she isn't. Ergo, one of your assumptions must be wrong.

She's not staying for you. She's staying for _her_.

 

Joan peers at you over her newspaper. "You okay, Sherlock?"

You must have the most dumbfounded expression, the most surprised, the most pleased expression on your face right now.

"Never better, Watson," you say, and this time you mean it.

* * *

The day that he would later refer to as "the beginning of a beautiful partnership," and that she would later refer to as "the day I moved in with a client and became a consulting detective???" started like this:

"Could have been a knife."

His face stings, though not unpleasantly.

He knew she'd say yes, of course. After all, he'd spent an entire week of torture figuring that out. Nevertheless, he can't help the smile that takes over his face after she leaves.

**Author's Note:**

> So idk about this fic. A little bit over-angsty? Well, I spent a good amount of time on it, so I figured I'd better post it. Hope you liked!


End file.
